


Unspoken

by TheAndromedaRecord



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Sharing a Bed, a few missing scenes from jon's coma and between 159 and 160, last 15 minutes of MAG160 do NOT interact, let jonathan cry, martin visits jon in his coma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 11:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAndromedaRecord/pseuds/TheAndromedaRecord
Summary: There's only one bed in Jon's hospital room. There's only one bed in Daisy's safehouse.A few missing Jonmartin scenes from The Magnus Archives.





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys i've been wanting to write a tma oneshot for AGES and 160 finally gave me the fluffy fuel i needed. making the season finale be just 5 minutes of jonmartin banter where nothing bad happens was an unorthodox choice but it's one i respect ngl

“I brought a book in, thought I’d read it here. Maybe read it to you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Jon doesn’t answer, of course. Even if he were awake, he would have no breath to do so. Martin takes his silence as a go-ahead and settles into the chair next to Jon. He looks so peaceful, and that observation makes Martin shudder, because Jon is functionally dead. It took loss of vital function for Jon to finally look relaxed, apparently.

No one has bothered to cut his hair yet, and it lies long and wild across the pillow. His stubble has grown to a full-on shadow. The bags under his eyes have faded, at least. If nothing else, Jon is getting sleep. A deeper sleep than anyone has ever experienced.

“The Institute is doing…fine,” Martin tells him. “Peter’s settling in okay. I…well, I don’t know if you can hear me. I know Elias can, and I know…it…can, so I’m just going to say that things are a little miserable.”

These updates are pointless. Even if Jon has any sort of awareness of the outside world, Martin’s inane babbling is probably the last thing he wants to hear. But Martin can’t stop himself.

He reads his book. Sometimes to himself, sometimes aloud. It’s become a bit of a routine: when the silence of the Institute settles over him like a closed fist of steel over his heart, he tells Peter he’s going for a walk alone and comes to the hospital. As far as he can tell, Peter never accompanies him. Far be it from Captain Lukas to impose on someone’s lonely moments.

He steals glances at Jon while he reads, hoping to see a twitch or a spike on the monitor. It’s a foolish and prideful hope, that his voice will be enough to bring Jon back.

Whatever has Jon now, it’s far beyond Martin. Jon belongs to something vast and old, something that laid its hands on him and claimed him, something made of the fears of teeming billions. Martin is just…Martin. He has no flaming hands or dark power or voice that shakes secrets loose. He just has a collection of paperbacks and extensive knowledge of how to brew tea. 

Jon is asleep, and Martin watches. It is not a ceaseless watch, nor an all-encompassing watch. His gaze is not possessive or burning.

Martin places his hand atop Jon’s. It is still warm. 

———

When Martin next visits, he has no book.

“I know it’s been a bit,” he tells Jon. 

He still feels the need to apologize. It’s not as bad as it used to be, though. Used to be, he could practically feel the itching strands of attention on him, the disdain of every person he’s disappointed. But that required people to pay attention to him, and that doesn’t happen so much anymore. Peter Lukas has gone through and snipped those threads, and Martin has done nothing to stop him.

He sits down beside Jon. Something hums in the air between them. A tension. 

Martin rests his hand on top of Jon’s. It is cold. Not cold like the dead, no—the readout still shows strong brain activity. It is not cold because Jon is cold. It is cold because something has claimed Martin, something that frowns on such warmth.

“I’m scared,” he confesses. “Things are changing so fast, and you know how I am with change.”

Does Jon know, he wonders. Does Jon know how he is with change? Did Jon ever take the time to notice anything about Martin? He knows what Peter would say, but that viewpoint is too painful to take. 

Jon could know. Jon’s specialty is sniffing out information. 

The question, then, is if Jon cared.

Martin shakes the fog loose from his mind, and he honestly can’t tell if those treacherous thoughts are the Forsaken’s or his. It’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference.

———

His last visit is unremarkable.

“I probably won’t be in for a bit,” he says. “Lots of work to do. Can’t spend too much time on old crushes. You know how it is.”

He does not lay his hand on Jon’s. The tape recorder clicks off.

———

It isn’t until he’s left the Lonely behind that Martin realizes how tight its grip on him was.

As they emerge, stumbling, into the tunnels, his whole body is full of pins and needles as feeling returns to it in a rush. It’s the feeling of Jon’s hand that sends that static through his body, and Martin realizes with a jolt just how long it’s been since he’s felt the warmth of human contact. The warmth stabs up through him like a spear. He can barely hear the screams and smell the blood as they stumble into the Institute proper. There is only Jon’s hand, and Martin’s breath suddenly too full in his chest. 

It is not the first time he’s held Jon’s hand, but it’s the first time Jon has held his. 

———

There is only one bed in Daisy’s safehouse. 

Martin realizes it as soon as they step inside. Of course, Daisy wouldn’t want anyone else staying here. There isn’t even a couch. 

They don’t have anything with them, just the clothes on their backs. Basira said she’d send along some stuff from their flats, and there are plenty of stores in the village. But for now, there’s just Jon and Martin and the empty den of a hunter. 

Martin knows he should be panicking. Elias is planning something. Countless Institute staff are dead. Police swarm the Institute and Daisy is still out there. His apathy isn’t the numb disregard of the Lonely or the forced detachment of the Beholding. His lack of feeling is something more human: he is so totally overwhelmed that the only way to stay sane is to focus on what is true. What he knows.

What he knows is this: Jon’s fingers grip his. What he knows is this: as they pause in the entryway of the apartment, Jon is standing right by him, so close that their arms press together.

“Jon,” Martin says, and the name is a confession and a cry that Jon needs no otherworldly power to interpret.

Jon folds his arms around Martin, clutching desperately at the worn knit sweater Martin insisted on grabbing before they left for Scotland. His mother made it, and now it soaks up Jon’s muffled tears. The top of Jon’s head barely comes to Martin’s shoulder, and the sight of him like that, sobbing and small, leaves Martin totally undone. And now he’s crying too, goddammit. Crying for what, he doesn’t even know. His tears were locked away for so long, so now his eyes have a whole backlog of emotions to process. 

“I want to go to bed,” Jon mutters. “I want to rest, and never have to deal with any of this again.”

Martin buries his face in Jon’s hair, greasy as it is. He wishes for a moment that he were a Fear power, able to remake the world in whatever image could keep Jon safe and happy. It’s a horrible thought, but he indulges it for more than several moments.

“Jon,” Martin says again, three little letters standing in as shorthand for paragraphs upon paragraphs he’s never had the courage to say directly. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jon replies. “I—I know now isn’t the best time…” He trails off, unsure. 

“Oh, uh, well, I need to tell you something too—“

“Oh, well, then, go ahead—“

“No, no, you go first—“

Jon looks up at Martin’s face with a look of incredible somberness, then bursts into desperate laughter. 

“Martin,” he says, “I tried not to see. I really tried.”

“Jon,” Martin says again, and it’s a question, a prayer, a hope.

“Martin,” Jon says, “please forgive me for knowing for so long and saying nothing.”

“Jon,” Martin says again, an absolution, a plea, a reassurance.

“God,” Jon murmurs into Martin’s chest. Martin feels Jon’s hands trembling, his fingers digging into Martin’s side with ardent desperation. “God, Martin, I love you so much it hurts.”

“Jon,” Martin breathes, a confirmation, a confession, a hope to ease Jon’s pain. 

He doesn’t need to say anything.

His trembling hands caress Jon’s face, and his right thumb comes away slick. Jon must have banged his forehead on one of the rough tunnel walls on the way out. 

He doesn’t know if he kisses Jon or if Jon kisses him, and he’s perfectly fine with that ignorance. 

Martin has one hand at the base of Jon’s neck, his fingers winding through dark and soft hair. Jon’s skin is hot, almost feverish. His lips are soft, and Martin can feel the scratch of stubble.

There’s nothing magical about kissing Jon. Nothing supernatural or transcendent. Their kiss is just that—a kiss. Jon’s lips taste like tears and his hands still tremble at Martin’s side. Martin clutches Jon with a desperation he hasn’t felt since the Unknowing. 

He kisses Jon again, and again, and again. Jon gives a breathless laugh and presses his lips to Martin’s neck. 

“Come on,” Martin murmurs. “Time for bed.” 

Surprisingly, Jon doesn’t argue, despite his nigh-religious objections to self care. His eyes are bleary and unfocused. With all the power he was channeling in the Lonely stripped away, Jon is just a man. A very tired man. 

Martin ransacks the closet and finds a pile of blankets, which he throws onto the bed. Jon and Martin lie down next to each other and pull the blankets close. After a moment, Jon turns and curls into Martin’s chest. Martin pulls him close, so his chin rests on the top of Jon’s head. 

“I love you, Jon,” he whispers.

Jon chuckles wearily.

“I know. I love you, too.”


End file.
